I might be tempted to get naked.

In books I get lost
I buy more no matter the cost
I'm addicted to the feeling
because the thrill is a sort of healing
for me at least
It's exhilarating to discover the next beast
lost in another world
yet still in my chair, body warm and curled.
Parties go unattended
and I hope they don't get offended
that I prefer books
over looks.

i want to be a somebody to someone
to carry more than just a solitary wail
of a train across a train track north
in the view of a blazing, starry night
and the view of withered fields

i want to carry this torch boldly into
the sunset horizon, to love and to cast
caution to the wind with reckless abandon
that tigress that cannot be tamed
one who wins all the arm wrestles

travel six times around the globe
and see everything with my hands
not just my eyes

other times, i can just curl up
and realize the only thing i can do
is relinquish myself in the crevice
of your arm and shoulder quietly
equal passion there as much as the silence
of the unknowns out there

i have found what you are like
the rain,

            (Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
                                  with thinned

newfragile yellows

                      lurch and.press

—in the woods
                      which
                              stutter
                                        and

                                              sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
                  your kiss

I have this friend across the pond
As bright as clear-night stars
Intelligent and talented
And faster than souped up cars

But she has her flaws, alas
As all the best poets do
I know this to be a fact, of course
Who hasn't got one or two?

After all, it has to be said
Perfection is lack of character to me
So I'm keeping my eye on my talented friend
And watch as her mind flies free

                                                By Phil Roberts

he still doesn't realize
that beauty has a price

he plucks roses and
wonders why they wither
when he's never learnt
to check their roots.

with thorns between his lips,
he speaks softly about
the way love has eluded
him over the years.

his palms like written verse,
scarred and coarse, petals
falling delicately out of
time from his fingertips.

he sees beauty but he
does not see underneath

he has always been
one to see the flames
but never feel the heat.